by Eddie Huang
“My parents didn’t give me my allowance this week yet!”
“Allowance? You twenty-one, how the fuck can you say ‘allowance’ with a straight face, b? Get a fuckin’ job. Gimme your phone, man.”
“But if I give you my phone, I can’t call you.”
“Then gimme that watch.”
This fool didn’t have fifty dollars, but he was running around with a gold and silver link Tag Heuer—it was worth more than three thousand.
“Man, my grandma gave me this watch!”
“Ha, ha, you hear this kid? You watched too much Friday talkin’ ’bout your grandma-ma, bitch. Gimme that watch.”
If you’ve seen Friday, you remember Chris Tucker’s line ’bout his grandma-ma giving him his chain. We were dying in the car, if he didn’t give up the watch quick, we wouldn’t have been able to keep the act up, it was so funny. I might as well have been Ben Affleck with socks showing at a law firm screaming “Reee-tain-eeeerrrr.”
“Fine, here’s the watch, but can you drop me off at home?”
“Yeah.”
We dropped him off and then everyone wanted to wear the watch. None of us had ever had anything that nice. Everyone wanted to take photos with it but I knew that was the kind of silly self-incrimination that got people locked up. Still, I rocked the shit out of that watch. Two weeks later, the kid got his fifty dollars together and called me.
“Hey, I have your money, meet me with the watch.”
“Naw, it’s cool. Keep your money, I like this watch.”
I made this kid chase me for three weeks trying to get his watch back just so he knew how it felt. In the end, I sold it back to him for three hundred. Pay your bills!
Rollins was a resort. We did whatever we wanted and ran the place as freshmen (technically, I was a sophomore in age, but it was my first year there, you know the deal). One day, I got caught up and didn’t make it to Troy’s crib after I picked up the work so I went to my coming-of-age novel class with two ounces. This girl Connie that sat next to me got my attention.
“Eddie!”
“Wassup?”
“Wassup??? You have a giant bag of weed on the table!”
“Shit!”
I didn’t even notice, but I had left my bag open when I got my notepad out and the weed was just sitting on the table when Dr. Jones came in. Luckily she didn’t see it.
That class opened my eyes. It was one of my first classes in the English major and looking around the table, I saw what it was really like to be wealthy. In Orlando, we had new money, but like Chris Rock said, we were rich, but we weren’t wealthy.
There were kids in class with their own yachts, sailboats, and European chalets. These people moved different. They had mastered the art of saying nothing. You could ask them a straight question like “Don’t you think we should have welfare?” And they could go on for five minutes, waxing poetic, and say absolutely nothing. They were masters of leading you in the wrong direction, taking you on a ride, and dropping you right back where you were when you asked the question. These were the real hustlers.
“The welfare of the poor is of course a serious problem that affects the condition of the nation, but it’s debatable how to solve the problem while properly incentivizing people to participate in a capitalist society. You don’t want a situation where your tax dollars are incentivizing stagnant behavior.”
READ: I don’t care about poor people and I’m assuming that everyone on welfare is some single mom with five kids who keeps having them to get more money on her EBT card.
But there were also people there who came to the school because it had a good reputation for liberal arts. There was a rich history at Rollins—it gave rise to the Black Mountain College movement and was an innovator in interdisciplinary study and breaking down a lot of the traditional education structures. I didn’t know anything about the history of the school until I got there and hung out with professors. Here I was running around with a bunch of knuckleheads serving the whole school, yet, when I was in class, I saw a whole other life for myself.
Dr. Jones’s class struck a nerve. Reading coming-of-age stories like The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Catcher in the Rye, Huckleberry Finn, and The Liars’ Club helped me answer a question I’d had for a minute. For years, I wanted to know if there was one person, one voice, one individual inside me. All my life people would call me a chink or a chigger. I couldn’t listen to hip-hop and be myself without people questioning my authenticity. Chinese people questioned my yellowness because I was born in America. Then white people questioned my identity as an American because I was yellow.
No black or Spanish person ever called me chigger, but hustling all of a sudden got white people off my back. I was the same dude with a different job, but now I was finally “authentic”§ to white people, and it made me realize it’s all a trap. We can’t fucking win. If I follow the rules and play the model minority, I’m a lapdog under a bamboo ceiling. If I like hip-hop because I see solidarity, I’m aping. But, if I throw it all away, shit on my parents, sell weed, pills, and strike fear into unsuspecting white boys with stunt Glocks, now I’m authentic? Fuck you, America.
After class, I was still spending my weekends back home on the Southwest Orlando side with my old homies. I went out with Lil’ Cra and Muschewske to Point Orlando one night. We were up in the club, chillin’, drinkin.’ I dropped a Xanax bar so I was nice. Not super twisted, just zonin’. Everything was kosher, but as we left, I saw that kid M-Ron that fought me in my driveway.
“Ay yo, Cra, that’s that dude.”
“Which one?”
“That kid from my driveway in ninth grade. Remember?”
“Oh shit, for real?”
“Yeah, I’ma get him, son. Hold me down.”
“A’ight, I got you, man, no doubt.”
I always had a padlock on me in case we got in a fight, ’cause you wanted to throw a heavy punch. You put your finger through the middle of the lock and make a fist around the joint. That way, you won’t break your hand and it’s like having a brass knuckle. I saw this motherfucker in his wack ass Kenneth Cole shoes and a Ben-Sherman-looking shirt. Kid grew up to be just like all the other sellouts in the neighborhood chillin’ with some spiked hair, 9 to 5 bros. He was walking with two other dudes when I walked up to him. One of the Rollins kids I was with was this kid named Mike Harris. He was supposedly from Boston and talked a lot about how he put in work back home, knew Israeli street fighting, could speak with his hands, etc. Blah, blah, blah, you know how it goes: college boy thespians.
“Harris, I’ma run up on this kid. Cra got my back, but hold me down if the other dude tries to creep.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? I’m sayin’, hit the big motherfucker if he moves!”
“Uhhh, OK.”
I walked up to the dude right in the middle of the parking lot.
“Hey! Hey, man!”
“Huh?”
“Yo, wassup, man? Long time no see!”
“Do I know you?”
“You don’t remember me, dogs? It’s Eddie, man!”
CRACK!
I whacked this motherfucker right in the teeth with my right and he crumbled to the fucking concrete like a sack of soybeans. One of the best punches I ever threw. He didn’t just fall, he stumbled twice, tripped over the other leg, and then yard saled.
“Ohhh, look at you now, son. Remember the name, motherfucker: Eddie Huang.”
BAM!
I pulled the classic bad guy shit that always fails. Remember, kids, if you knock someone the fuck out, don’t stand over them, don’t take your mask off, don’t tell ’em your name, and DEFINITELY don’t let their giant A-Rab friend kick you in the back of the head.
“Oh shit! Eddie, get up, man, the cops are coming!”
Lil’ Cra had one, but Mike Harris sat in the fucking car while we threw down. All that talk about Israeli street fighting and how he could kill a man with his bare ha
nds was just sales puffery. That’s why real motherfuckers hate college kids, man. Hormones got you actin’ wild in the club in front of girls, but push comes to shove and you’re sitting in a Toyota Celica smoking Parliament lights like a fuckin’ female. I got up and everything was spinning. The kick wasn’t that bad, but I didn’t expect it, so I hit the concrete parking lot facefirst and started bleeding everywhere. “Stop that kid! Stop that kid!”
I saw pork so we bucked and jumped in the whip. Muschewske got us the fuck out of there before we could get arrested. Me, Cra, Muschewske, Harris, and this chick Jerry all got away.
“Damn, son, why you didn’t get Eddie’s back!”
“Yo, I might have killed one of them, man. I can’t get involved like that.”
“Dead ass, you really gonna stick with that bullshit Israeli street fighting story? No one fucking believes you, dude. If you gonna bitch out, at least lay the fuck all the way down and stop frontin’ like you’ve ever done the damn thing.”
“Eddie, you’re bleeding everywhere!”
“For real, Jerry?”
“Take your shirt off, I’ll stop the bleeding.”
I took my shirt off so that she could press it against my face. The shit was dripping blood everywhere, but I really didn’t feel shit ’cause I was on bars.
“A’ight, so, I need to know, y’all saw me knock that motherfucker out the box, right?”
“Ahhh, you definitely got him, b! Most definitely got him.”
“Yeaaah, I been waitin’ years to hit that motherfucker, man.”
“Are you idiots serious? You’re missing half your face right now!”
“Yo, it’s worth it, though. That’s the only L I ever took.”
“Uhhh, I don’t know what kind of crazy math you guys are running, but this whole situation on your face is definitely an L.”
“Ha, ha, Jerry, you wildin’!!! This is nothin’. Plus, I got hit from behind, this isn’t on my scorecard.”
“Yeah, all I see is W’s today!”
“Let’s go to the 7 and get some more beer.”
“Dude, you are GIVING blood right now, we’re going to the hospital.”
“Naw, naw, naw, I can’t go to the hospital. I got pills in my system. We can just put neosporin on this.”
“Hell no!”
“Jerry, for real, we can’t go to the hospital.”
“Um, no, we’re going to the hospital.”
Eventually, Jerry won out and we went to the hospital. But, first, I chilled out in the Chick-fil-A parking lot down the street, had some food, drank some water, and brushed my teeth at a gas station so I didn’t have alcohol on my breath. Jerry and Muschewske checked me into the hospital and told them I hurt myself skateboarding. We both had Etnies on and shit so it made sense. They bought the story, didn’t bother with blood tests, didn’t notice my breath, and took care of my injuries.
I wasn’t mad at all. Whether I was missing half my face or not, it always bothered me I never swung on those kids in ninth grade, and now I did it. Revenge is always expensive, but you get what you pay for. Everything was roses sitting there on the hospital cot when I realized I forgot about my coming-of-age novel class.
“Fuck!”
“What? We’re good.”
“Naw, my Huckleberry Finn paper is due tomorrow!”
“Yo, fuck school, man, you can turn it in later.” That night, I made a decision.
I made Mike take me back to school and drop me off in my dorm room, and I wrote my paper on Huckleberry Finn for Dr. Jones’s class. It finally became clear. There was no ending! Twain copped out. He didn’t finish! As much as I loved the book, I couldn’t let him get away. Where was my ending? More important, I looked myself in the bloody-ass face and said to myself: “What’s your ending, asshole?”
The next day, I rolled into Dr. Jones’s class about fifteen minutes late. Considering everything that had happened, I figured she would cut me some slack. I opened the door, walked in, and kids literally puked in their mouths. I stunk like weed, I had bandages all over my face, and my elbow was still bleeding. I tried not to make a commotion, but Dr. Jones stopped and just stared at me walking in.
“Eddie, are you OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m totally fine. Sorry I’m late.”
She didn’t want to get too personal in front of the whole class, but she gave me the concerned screw face. I sat in my seat next to Connie and pulled out my paper. After a few minutes, I was comfortable enough to look around the room and realized something.
“Yo, Connie, is this family day or some shit?”
“Uhhh, yeah, Dr. Jones has been talking about it for weeks, remember? She brought her kids to class today …”
“Fuck, are you serious?”
“Look in the back, dude.”
“I’m cool, though, right? I fell off a skateboard.”
“Eddie … I don’t know how to tell you this but you are really really not cool right now.”
And she smiled. I loved Connie. She was judgmental, but never acted on her judgments. She’d tell you you were an asshole. She’d tell you what she thought, but she’d still kick it with you. Connie wasn’t one of those people that operated on stigmas and stereotypes; if she saw something that seemed off, she’d dig deeper where others would run. She was mad understanding and whether she’ll admit it or not, probably also just liked being around random ignant shit like me.
“Connie, I don’t think I’m gonna make it. I gotta fuckin’ puke. Can you give my paper to Dr. Jones?”
“Yeah, but I’m calling you after class.”
“Gimme a few hours. I gotta take a nap.”
“Whatever.”
I got back in my room and passed the fuck out. I woke up five hours later to a full voicemail box:
“Eddie, it’s Dr. Jones. I need to talk to you.”
“Umm, dude, are you really going to leave your paper with me and then not pick up when I call to see if you’re OK? Call me …”
“Ay yo, it’s Chew. You got that motherfucker last night, son. Let’s get it innn tonight!”
I called Dr. Jones.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dr. Jones, it’s Eddie.”
“Eddie … Nice to hear from you. I have a bone to pick.”
“What happened?”
“It’s about your paper.”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, I haven’t been able to read it.”
“Why? It’s all there.”
“Well, I’m looking at your paper and there’s freaking blood all over it!”
“For real? Oh, should I bring you another copy?”
“Yes, yes, Eddie, you should bring me another copy. But I don’t want it right now, bring it to the next class, and by the way, what the heck happened to you?”
“Uhhh, you really want to know?”
“You can tell me.”
“I saw this kid that I got in a fight with in ninth grade so I hit him, but his friend kicked me in the back of the head so I hit the parking lot with my face.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Eddie … I don’t know if you think this is funny or OK, but it’s not. You can’t keep doing this. You know I love you, you’re a smart kid, but it’s one or the other. You can’t have it both ways.”
“I know. I mean, yo, you won’t believe me, but I left the hospital just so I could write that paper and turn it in this morning.”
“Of course I believe you! I can’t believe you came to class! It’s insane. You have this dedication, but then you do these crazy things. You make money writing papers for other kids,‖ you hit someone in a parking lot, then you hit the parking lot with your face. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, Dr. Jones.”
BEFORE IT GOT better, it got worse.
“JARED! WHAT THE fuck, son?”
“Fuck these bitches. What are they gonna do?”
“It’s just unnecessary, b.”
“Let’s bounce, man, someone’s gonna see this.”
At the end of my first semester at Rollins, Jared and Ben came through one night. Jared had too much to drink and bashed out the front window in the middle of a roiling frat party that we’d crashed for the free drinks. Ben and I were drinking in the stairwell when we heard the glass shatter and then saw Jared coming up to us with a silly grin and a fast walk.
We all hustled outside and got about fifty feet down the sidewalk when we turned back to see sixteen frat guys rushing through the door like some kind of clown act at the J. Crew circus. The main dude came out, chest puffed, screaming.
“Which one of you assholes broke that window?”
We didn’t trip. The three of us had been through so much shit before, we knew the drill.
“What window?”
“The fucking window that’s on the sidewalk now!”
“Yo, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Eddie, we know you, man. Which one of your boys broke the window?”
“Son, I have no idea what you’re talking about. No one broke any window.”
I remember that “Late Registration” was bumpin’ through the Chi Psi window. My boy Jacob always played that shit “Two Words” and it was coming through that window like theme music. “We in the streets playa getcha mail / it’s only two places you’ll end up: either dead or in jail.” Sixteen angry frat boys were tightening their semicircle around us, but for some weird-ass reason all I heard was Yeezy until I realized people were still barkin’ at me.
“Dude, you go to school here, just tell us which one of these assholes broke the window and it’s not a problem.”
“Yo, I’m not saying it again. We’re walking this way. If y’all have a problem, come with it.”
Jared, Ben, and I started to walk off and the frat boys looped around us to form a circle. Sixteen of them punk motherfuckers and not a nann one of them swung on us. Everyone was waiting for someone to throw the first punch and we weren’t about to, ’cause we were outnumbered. Then Ben bucked. He broke the line around us and started running down the street.
“Where you going?!”
“He’s probably getting the gat, son.”
We didn’t have a gun. There was no reason. None of us were into shit that deep but the frat boys didn’t know. At the time, I thought I was playing it smart, making them think Ben had the ratchet. It worked because a few of them fell back. Jared and I stood our ground still surrounded by the remaining mob of frat guys, who were now crowding us even closer, starting to push us around a little. There was a lot of bullshitting, but we figured that by the time Ben came back with the car, we’d just jump in and be out.